


heaven's on fire

by orphan_account



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 21:26:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5642560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Tell me if I’ve got this right.” Teresa sounds like she’s struggling to hold back laughter. Thomas hates her. “You spent most of your six-hour flight flirting with a hot stranger, only to find out he’s actually the author whose press conference you were meant to be covering.” </p><p>“<i>And</i> I told him I had no interest in reading any of his books,” Thomas adds, because what the hell. He may as well lay all the facts out. “I also might have told him that we used to date.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	heaven's on fire

This is ridiculous. Thomas doesn’t even _read_ books. He’s going to look like a complete _idiot_ trying to write about some press conference by an award-winning author he’s never heard of, who has written a book he’s never even read. Minho is totally out to get him. It’s the only possible reason for why in God’s name he chose Thomas as his replacement for this. (Except, you know, how Minho actually looked genuinely apologetic when he informed Thomas that he had to go home and visit his sick grandmother. Thomas isn’t going to take something like that against anyone. He’s not completely heartless.) 

Thomas still doesn’t understand why someone like Teresa, who actually writes about _books_ for a living, couldn't have taken over for Minho. But when he asked, she just went on another one of her rants about how much work she had to do, and did he know how many books she had to finish in order to fulfill her quota for the week? Thomas supposes this is all part of her one-woman crusade to bring quality back to the contemporary literature scene. God forbid another series like _Fifty Shades of Grey_ ends up a bestseller on _The New York Times_ again. (That had been a bad week for anyone who got within ten feet of Teresa. For about a month after that, her desk was left alone.) 

All the same, Thomas writes _movie_ reviews. It should be obvious who is more fit to cover something like this. Not to mention, when Thomas told her about how he was replacing Minho, Teresa’s eyes had immediately lit up, and she launched into some kind of discussion about the author. Something about him being the youngest person to ever win this award. (In all honesty, Thomas kind of spaced out after a few minutes, his mind wandering over to what he was going to have for dinner that night. It’s a wonder how he ever even managed to date Teresa in the first place.) He even pitched the idea to Alby, trying to get him to lessen Teresa’s workload so she could go, but no luck. The editor just gave him another one of his unsympathetic stares, and then handed over all of Minho’s research about the author. 

Sometimes, Thomas really hates his job. No one ever told him being an adult would be this hard.

—

A week later, Thomas finds himself at the boarding gate for the last flight out to Los Angeles, backpack stuffed with all of Minho’s research and a copy of the book he has yet to touch. (“You don’t actually have to read the whole thing,” Alby reminded him patiently when Thomas complained about it the night before. “Just get a gist of what it’s about so you won’t be completely thrown off at the conference.”) Thomas knows that Alby’s only being this lenient with him because they’ve been friends for a while, but he loves him for it, anyway. 

In all honesty, there’s another underlying reason Thomas was so reluctant about taking the job. Lack of interest in books aside, Thomas is actually quite terrified of flying. It’s not something he’d ever openly admit to anyone, but he’s pretty sure all of his friends already know. He’s a little miffed that he has to fly economy on a six-hour flight across the country, but then again, no amount of legroom will lessen the knot of apprehension that has manifested itself in the pit of his stomach. Sitting in the window seat helps calm him down somewhat, but when he’s finally waved into the plane, he makes his way over to the seat printed on his ticket and finds someone already in his preferred spot. 

“Oh, fuck me,” he says without thinking. 

The guy in the window seat startles and turns to look up at him. He’s dressed like some kind of supermodel in this blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and red pants that look way too uncomfortably tight to be worn on a plane. Standing in front of him in his hoodie and sweatpants, Thomas feels like that one kid who showed up to his senior prom in a T-shirt and jeans. The guy is still staring at him, but Thomas can’t tell where exactly his gaze is focused because he’s also wearing Aviators. On a night flight. 

In the ensuing few seconds of watching each other, the stranger seems to have gotten over his surprise at being seemingly propositioned because he looks Thomas over, mouth curling into a smirk, and says, “Only if you say please,” in an accent that is decidedly not American and very British. Thomas feels his mouth go dry. 

See, here's the thing: Thomas isn’t _stupid_. He knows an opportunity when he sees one. But he’s also sure that his brain-to-mouth filter has disintegrated in the face of the impending flight and this attractive stranger because instead of following up that statement with a flirty line that would have had Teresa rolling her eyes into the heavens, he says, “You’re in my seat.” (In fairness, had Teresa heard that, she’d have rolled her eyes, too. Just, you know, for a completely different reason.) 

“Am I?” The guy’s Aviators are so wide, Thomas wouldn’t have been able to tell he was surprised if not for the tone of his voice. “This was what was printed on my ticket.” 

“No, it is.” And Thomas continues to surprise himself with how much of a complete loser he’s being. It’s a new record. He should probably start watching this guy for any signs of concern at the amount of nonsense that’s coming out of his mouth. “I just really want to sit near the window.” 

“As it happens, so do I.” The guy leans back in his chair, grinning at Thomas. It’s ridiculously infectious and Thomas so desperately wants to know what the rest of his face looks like, but then again, he’s still sitting beside the window. And Thomas _needs_ that seat. 

“No, but—” he starts. 

“You’re holding up the line,” the guy says, cutting him off. He’s still smiling at Thomas like he finds him amusing rather than batshit crazy, and Thomas really has to give this guy credit. Despite that, Thomas opens his mouth to argue, but then someone pointedly clears his throat behind him, and when he looks over, he sees that, yes, they have started letting people onboard and his little stand-off with the hot stranger has held things up. Sighing, he sinks into the aisle seat, tossing his backpack to the ground. He can still feel the guy’s gaze on him, and it makes his skin feel hot and flushed, so he pointedly stares at the pamphlets tucked into the pocket in front of him. 

“You know, you aren’t the first person to fight me for the window seat.” The guy’s voice jerks Thomas back into reality, and when Thomas turns to look at him, there’s an amused tilt to his lips. At least this means he’s not about to have Thomas institutionalized. 

Thomas really wants to ignore this attractive stranger who refused to give up his seat for him. But Thomas also really wants to keep him talking. He wonders if he’s suddenly developed some kind of accent kink. So he says, “Yeah? No wonder you’re so damn stubborn.” 

The guy nods sagely. “Gotta learn to be, mate. People get so bloody territorial about where they sit. There was once this old woman who I was convinced was about to beat me with her walker.” 

Despite the slight tension that’s still curling around his stomach, Thomas feels his mouth stretch into a grin. “Maybe it’s the sunglasses. It’s a bit like talking to Darth Vader.” _A really sexy Darth Vader_ , his mind supplies unhelpfully. 

“Please,” the guy says with a snort. “Darth Vader has got nothing on me. I’d have put the Force to much greater use if I had that kind of power.” 

Hot accent, sense of humor, gets his movie references. Thomas is vaguely sure he’s just won the dating lottery. And they aren’t even dating. Yet. “Oh, yeah? Save the world and all that?” 

“Much better than that,” the guy replies. “Do you know how much time I’d save if I could just summon my TV remote from across the room?” Then he laughs, this great, bubbly laugh that makes Thomas feel lighter just listening to it. 

“Oh, God,” Thomas says. “You’d be a terrible Jedi.” 

“The absolute worst,” the guy agrees with a nod. 

“Still, though,” Thomas prompts. “Sunglasses at night? You must be all kinds of badass. Even though you aren’t Darth Vader.” 

“Hardly,” the guy says with a rueful shrug of his shoulders. “I’ve got terrible eye bags. Or so Brenda likes to tell me repeatedly.” 

“Who’s Brenda?” Thomas asks, trying and failing to keep the jealous edge out of his voice. If the stranger says, “My girlfriend,” Thomas is pretty sure that he’s going to hit someone. Or himself. In the face. 

“My assistant.” The smirk the guy sends his way makes Thomas start to question if maybe he’s some kind of mind reader. Thomas really hopes not. His mind would probably be a mix of catastrophic plane crashes and a few fantasies of the two of them running on a beach in Mexico. (What? He’s a romantic guy.) 

“Oh.” Thomas blinks at him, relief flooding his insides. “You should probably take them off, though. It’s a little creepy talking to someone when you can’t see their face. Unless… You’re not deformed under that are you? Because then you really would be Darth Vader, and while that would be pretty cool, I might have to change seats.” Thomas really needs to learn how to shut up.

“I think we can establish that you’re perfectly safe sitting next to me,” the guy drawls. But he reaches up and pulls the glasses off his face, and Thomas finds that, no, he is not deformed underneath those glasses at all. In fact, he’s the complete opposite. Wow, Thomas really has to reassess his life decisions because the stranger, who had been attractive with the glasses on, just went off the hotness meter and is currently orbiting around in space. Thomas is so far gone; his thoughts no longer make sense. 

“I’m Newt, by the way,” the guy says, completely oblivious to the way Thomas is shamelessly staring at him. He holds out his hand and Thomas takes it, still a little shell-shocked. 

Before Thomas can reply, the plane jerks into motion, the wheels scraping the ground as the plane gains momentum, ready to propel itself into the night sky. In all the excitement of the last few minutes, Thomas had failed to notice that boarding must have finished. He suddenly feels a little sick. 

“Are you alright?” Newt asks, a concerned expression on his face. The fact that he also leans in closer to Thomas is definitely not helping. “You look a little green.” 

“I may be a little terrified of flying.” His voice comes out hoarse and strangled. 

Comprehension dawns on Newt’s attractive face; his eyebrows furrow together and he purses his lips. Thomas should _really_ not be thinking about kissing him at a time like this. “This is why you wanted the window seat, isn’t it?” 

Despite the fact that he’s holding onto the armrests of his seat for dear life, Thomas manages a small shrug. “Maybe.” He closes his eyes and prepares for his demise. 

But it doesn’t come. Before he can fully process what’s happening, Newt’s pushing him out of his seat in the direction of the aisle. “Get up,” Newt commands. 

“The plane is moving!” Thomas tries to protest. But what was supposed to come out as an indignant response turns into more of a terrified squeak. Not that he’ll ever admit it.

“I’m trying to give you what you wanted, you twat,” Newt hisses. Carefully maneuvering himself into a standing position by gripping the head of his seat, Thomas manages to slide out of his chair and stand in the aisle. He watches as Newt climbs out and stands next to him, and he barely has time to swoon over the fact that Newt is a little taller than him, or the fact that his hair is arranged in this really attractive wave, before Newt demands, “What are you waiting for? Get in!” 

“Right.” Thomas slides into the window seat, pressing his forehead against the plastic. He stays that way all throughout the ascent, waiting until the plane’s stopped jerking around and the seatbelt sign has blipped off before he sits back and turns to Newt, who is still watching him carefully. 

“Um,” he says awkwardly. He’s not sure if the hot and bothered feeling spreading throughout his body is the result of embarrassment or something else entirely. Maybe a mix of both. “Thank you?” 

Newt huffs. “You really should have said that earlier. I thought you were just one of those demanding people with strange preferences.” 

Thomas lets out a surprised laugh. “Dude, I am not that shallow.” 

“You’d be surprised at how many of those people I’ve met,” Newt mutters, so softly Thomas wonders if he was meant to hear it. Then he looks back at Thomas and smirks. “So, I’ve practically saved your life and I still don’t know your name. Are you going to tell me what it is? Or shall I refer to you as The Guy Whose Life I Saved forever?” 

“Seriously?” Thomas gapes at him. “That was hardly something you’d see on CNN.” 

Newt shakes his head in mock disappointment. “Ah, the youth, so ungrateful these days.” 

“I look older than you,” Thomas argues. 

“My friends will never believe me if I tell them I helped a guy with such a strange name,” Newt continues, ignoring Thomas’ outburst. 

Thomas rolls his eyes. “It’s Thomas.” 

“Thank you,” Newt replies, grinning. “Honestly. I think my friends have had enough of my stories for a lifetime.” 

“Is that something you do a lot?” Thomas asks. “Make stories up?” 

Newt smirks at him. “A bit, yeah.”

—

Ten minutes later, Thomas reluctantly decides that it’s time for him to at least _try_ and look through all of Minho’s research. (See, he’s totally capable of being a responsible adult.) He grabs his backpack off the floor and zips it open, dumping all the files on his lap. 

“Work stuff,” he says in response to Newt’s incredulous stare. “My friend had to go home and visit his family, so I’m covering this press conference by some author for him.” 

Newt’s lips twitch slightly. “And you seem positively thrilled about that.” 

Thomas shrugs. “I’m not much of a reader, really.” 

“What’s the book, then?” Newt asks, tilting his head to one side. “Maybe I’ve heard of it.” 

“Oh, uh.” Thomas digs around in his backpack and hands his copy of _Tales from the Glade_ over to Newt, who takes it with a strange expression on his face. “I think the author goes by some kind of pseudonym.” 

“Newton Isaacs,” Newt reads from the cover. “That’s not very original.” 

“You’ve heard of him?” With Thomas’ luck, this guy is probably Newt’s favorite author and he’s just completely destroyed any chance he possibly had with him by admitting he doesn’t read. 

“He’s alright.” Newt shrugs. “There’s always room for improvement, though.” 

“I don’t know,” Thomas says doubtfully. “Teresa’s all about him, and she’s got crazy high standards when it comes to books.” 

“Teresa?” There’s something familiar about the edge to Newt’s voice, but Thomas can’t place it. “Is she your girlfriend?” 

“My best friend,” Thomas corrects. “Well, she was my girlfriend, but then, I realized…” Thomas thinks back on his relationship with Teresa and how it had been a good one. He supposes they just never managed to shake off the brother-sister thing they had going for them. It also maybe had something to do with the raging crush he developed on Minho when he first started at the office. Even though they’re now as close as can be, Thomas never really got over the fact that maybe girls just weren’t for him. Then he remembers that he’s about to confess all this to a complete stranger, so he finishes his statement with a vague, “…stuff.” 

“Stuff, huh?” Thomas watches Newt’s eyebrows disappear underneath the hair on his forehead. “It’s fine if you don’t want to tell me—”

“I maybe developed a crush on one of my best friends,” Thomas blurts out, surprising even himself. “Who happened to be a guy.”

“Ouch.” Newt winces. “I’m guessing she broke up with you after that?” 

“She did,” Thomas responds. “After she laughed for about twenty minutes straight.” When Newt cocks his head to one side in question, Thomas lifts a shoulder. “Teresa’s pretty cool that way.” 

“Good that,” Newt agrees with a nod. “Her taste in books is quite questionable, though.” He looks down at the book he’s still holding, turning it around in his hands. 

Thomas shoots him a curious look. “Why do you say that?” 

“Well, the main character’s got a bit of a superiority complex,” Newt explains. “I don’t think the author’s managed to fix that, he’s got a bit of a problem with uniformity when it comes to character traits…” Newt continues on, getting more into the discussion, and Thomas thinks that he could maybe learn to love books if he had Newt around to explain them to him all the time. 

“Sorry, I guess I got a bit carried away there,” Newt finishes with a laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Thomas is smitten as hell. 

“It’s fine,” Thomas assures him, tearing his eyes away from Newt’s face. “You have a lot to say, I like it.” The _I like you_ goes unsaid. 

“I like what you have to say, too,” Newt says, and Thomas hopes that means something more than what he hears, too.

—

Somehow, or probably because he did take the last flight out and it is pretty late, Thomas manages to fall asleep. He vaguely remembers trying to get comfortable leaning against the window, his head banging into it every so often until Newt went, “Sod this,” and pulled Thomas down to rest against his shoulder. But when he wakes up a few hours later to a nearly empty plane with nothing but drool on his face, he figures it was just his imagination getting carried away. Newt’s seat is empty, and Thomas would be a bit more upset about falling asleep instead of talking to the probable love of his life, but it’s also close to four in the morning and he’s tired as hell. 

In an almost zombie-like state, Thomas somehow manages to get through the rest of the airport, hail a cab to his hotel, and make his way to the bed. The last thing he remembers thinking about before passing out is the sound of Newt’s laugh.

—

Thomas passes most of the next morning leafing through all of Minho’s research that he managed to overlook in favor of talking to Newt. It’s pretty extensive, and when he’s finally finished with it, he’s left with a vague feeling of incompetence in the face of this Newton guy. Youngest person to ever win a Pulitzer Prize, gives speeches in the UN against human trafficking, a prominent activist for LGBT rights, basically the whole package. Whoever this guy is, he’s pretty much perfect. 

Thomas then spends the car ride to the convention center where the conference is taking place daydreaming about British accents, crinkled laugh lines, and tousled blonde hair. There’s a tight feeling that’s settles in his chest when he thinks about how he’s probably never going to see Newt again. Then the driver announces that they’ve arrived, and Thomas shoves all thoughts of Newt aside and goes to do this damn job. 

When he walks in through the side entrance, he’s greeted by one of the organizers and given a press badge. The room is big enough for rows of chairs to be set out, most of them already occupied by fans holding copies of the book to be signed. Thomas notes that there are quite a lot of young girls in the audience, so he figures whoever this Newton guy is, he must be good looking as well. Some people really do have it all. 

Thomas fills in the next few minutes by wandering around the area and making small talk with a bunch of other people, all the while wondering how the hell he’s supposed to get through one more day of this. He’s just about to call it quits and wait out by the bathrooms when he hears a familiar voice call his name from behind. 

“Chuck!” he says cheerfully, turning around and making his way over to his longtime friend. Thomas had met Chuck at a couple of events in the past and they get along well enough despite working for different newspapers.

“How’ve you been?” Chuck asks, grinning widely. “This isn’t your usual kind of event. Movie premiers getting too boring for you?” 

Thomas makes a face. “Hardly. Minho had to go home and now I’m stuck covering for him.” 

“And whining about it to Alby didn’t do anything to help?” Chuck guesses. 

“You know me so well,” Thomas deadpans. “I think he’s developed an immunity to my complaining. It’s time to find a new tactic.” 

Chuck rolls his eyes. “Come on, I doubt this’ll be that bad. You’ve got to admit, this Newton guy is pretty interesting.” 

“ _Interesting?_ ” Thomas echoes disbelievingly. “He’s probably got more credentials than the President. There’s no way I’d ever get along with someone that accomplished.” 

“You say that like you’re some kind of homeless who just managed to find his way in here.” Chuck punches him playfully on the shoulder. “He’s not too bad on the eyes. I bet he’d be your type,” he adds with a suggestive eyebrow raise. 

“Please tell me you’re not trying to convince me to go for the guy whose speeches are tattooed on the arms of hipsters,” Thomas says with a laugh. “He’s a little too out of my league.” Not to mention, Thomas is still more than a little hung up on Newt and his amazing accent. 

Chuck opens his mouth to reply, but the sound of microphone feedback drowns out whatever he was going to say. From where he’s standing at the back of the room, Thomas can barely make out the figure of a guy walking towards the podium located on the other side. From the way some members of the audience have started to cheer and the reporters next to him have turned attentively towards the front, Thomas guesses that Newton Isaacs has finally arrived. 

“Sorry about that,” says a familiar accented voice, the sound reverberating around the room. Thomas feels his heart stop. No. No. No. This cannot be happening. He pushes his way forward and finds himself staring at an equally familiar pair of eyes. “So, uh, I’m Newton Isaacs,” Newt continues, grinning while a hundred cameras go off. “Let’s get this thing started.” 

Thomas cannot believe his life. He’s still standing frozen to his spot, feeling the blood drain away from his face, eyes widened almost comically in horror. He sat next to this guy on a plane. He accused him of being deformed. Newt’s net worth is probably more than Thomas would ever make in three lifetimes. Thomas thinks back to worrying about losing his chance with Newt because he didn’t read books and almost bursts into hysterical laughter right there. 

“Are you okay?” Chuck hisses, elbowing him. “You look a little green.” 

It’s this strange sense of déjà vu that finally spurs Thomas into action. “I have to go.” Before Chuck can say anything, before he’s even really aware of what he’s doing, Thomas makes his way towards the exit, pushing open the double doors and running without abandon to where the car is waiting for him. His driver looks a little confused when Thomas demands to be brought back to the hotel, but Thomas is too preoccupied with trying to quell the ringing in his ears to care. 

When the car finally veers onto the highway, Thomas rests his head against the backrest of his seat and tries his best not to think about anything.

—

“So, enlighten me,” Teresa says conversationally. “After reading through all that research about Newton Isaacs, it never occurred to you to check out _what he looked like_?” 

“I told you I wasn’t made for this kind of thing!” Thomas wails into the phone pressed against his ear. The second he got back to his room, he made a dive for the phone and punched in Teresa’s number. To her credit, she waited until he finished spilling the whole saga to her before she started laughing. “I write movie reviews! I’m not some kind of investigative journalist!” 

“Tell me if I’ve got this right.” Teresa sounds like she’s struggling to hold back laughter. Thomas hates her. “You spent most of your six-hour flight flirting with a hot stranger, only to find out he’s actually the author whose press conference you were meant to be covering.” 

“ _And_ I told him I had no interest in reading any of his books,” Thomas adds, because what the hell. He may as well lay all the facts out. “I also might have told him that we used to date.” 

There’s a pause, and then Teresa says, “Fuck me. You really are the unluckiest person to ever walk the planet.” 

Thomas can’t help but agree.

—

“Thomas!” Minho’s cheerful greeting floats down the line. “I was just about to call you, man. Good news, my grandma’s all good so I think I’ll be able to head straight there and cover the last day of the conference.” 

Thomas would be eternally grateful to Minho at this moment except for how much he also hates him. “In all the research that you gave me about Newton Isaacs,” Thomas hisses into the phone, “you couldn’t have included a _picture_?” 

Eight minutes later, Thomas hangs up on the sound of Minho’s hysterical laughter.

—

Thomas spends most of the next day hiding out in his hotel room, watching the year’s Oscar nominations, and ignoring Chuck’s increasingly alarmed text messages. Minho had flown in the day before and headed straight to the convention center to try and pick up from where Thomas left off, so he’s left with a lot of time to brood over his pathetic excuse of a life. Thomas then occupies most of the night by drowning his sorrows in copious amounts of alcohol at the hotel bar. 

“I really liked him, man,” Thomas slurs, scotch splashing on his clothes. “And now I blew it by being an uncultured moron. Who doesn’t fly helicopters. Or have tea with Queen Elizabeth.” 

“You said he hates shallow people,” Minho says, trying to pat Thomas on the back sympathetically. But due to the alcohol consumption, he ends up punching Thomas on the ear instead. “So why would he be?”

“He’s friends with the Dalai Lama,” Thomas replies morosely. “Why would he want me when he’s got the Dalai Lama?” 

“Because you can’t fuck the Dalai Lama?” Minho suggests. Thomas groans and bangs his head against the marble countertop. He hates everything.

—

The next morning, Thomas makes his way back to the airport, swiftly regretting all the drinking he engaged in the night before. The only good thing about all of this is that the sooner he gets on that plane, the closer he’ll be to going home and putting this whole mess behind him. 

He’s running a little late, so he gets to the boarding area just as the gates are about to close. After he's waved into the plane, he walks towards his assigned spot, praying for a window seat and trying hard not to think about the last time he flew. When he finally reaches his place, he finds that he does, in fact, get a window seat this time. 

“Fancy seeing you again,” Newt says, looking up at Thomas from where he’s seated right next to the aisle. 

Thomas stares at him. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

—

“I think,” Thomas gasps out, head banging against the mirror, “that this was a bad idea.” 

“This was your bloody idea,” Newt counters, breath ghosting along Thomas’ collarbone. When Thomas doesn’t immediately reply, Newt tilts his head forward and leans down to suck on Thomas’ pulse point. Fuck, there’s no way Thomas can get a word out now. 

“No, really,” he says, managing to somewhat separate himself from Newt. Which, considering the size of the bathroom, is really quite an impressive feat. “This is a very bad idea.” 

Newt surveys him, pupils dilated beyond belief, hair sticking out in a million different directions from where Thomas had been grabbing at it, lips red and swollen, and Thomas can only imagine what Newt sees on his own face. “Why?” 

Thomas really has no idea what came over him. He had sat stiffly next to Newt while the plane took off, completely ignoring both his presence and the questioning gazes Newt had kept throwing his way. Then, when the seatbelt sign had finally gone off, he leaned in towards Newt, whispered, “Bathroom,” and promptly made his way to the back of the plane. When Newt walked in a minute later, Thomas wasted no time in pulling him into a furious kiss that had been mostly a mesh of teeth, tongues, and soft, urging noises. 

Now he’s seated on the bathroom counter, back pressed against the mirror, legs tangled around Newt’s waist, trying desperately to remember why he had decided to stop kissing him. “I’m an idiot,” he says instead. 

“A bit,” Newt agrees, mouth stretching into a grin. “It’s alright. I like you, anyway.” 

“You are way too good for me,” Thomas tries to protest. But even that turns into a moan when Newt shifts so that their hips are pressed against each other. 

“You’re the one who rejected me,” Newt murmurs, lips dangerously close to Thomas’ earlobe. 

Thomas is about two seconds away from giving in and kissing Newt again, but he stops himself and jerks back long enough to stare at him in confusion. “What are you talking about?” 

“I left you my number,” Newt replies, pressing a completely unnecessary kiss to the base of Thomas’ throat. “In the book,” he clarifies when Thomas just stares at him some more. “I guess that was a bad idea, you weren’t joking when you said you didn’t read.” 

“I—” Thomas breaks off. “You won a _Pulitzer Prize_.” Somehow, with Newt standing so close to him, that doesn’t seem like much of an important matter anymore.

Newt shrugs. “Totally undeserved in my opinion.” 

“What the hell are you even doing flying economy?” Thomas demands, then moans again when Newt rolls his hips against his. Thomas should probably be annoyed at how much Newt is distracting him from his original point, but, well. Best distraction _ever_. 

“I’m not into the whole celebrity lifestyle,” Newt responds, his lips ghosting over Thomas’ again. “Besides, I’ve met some very interesting people.” 

“I’m the most interesting one, though, right?” Thomas asks breathlessly. 

“Definitely,” Newt breathes, dipping back down for a kiss. Thomas immediately lets him in, reaching around and tangling his hand in Newt’s hair, trying to deepen the angle. Newt’s arms come up and bracket Thomas, effectively pinning him to the wall. 

“I totally fell asleep on you, didn’t I?” Thomas asks when they finally pull apart for air and Newt is pressing open-mouthed kisses along his neck. 

Newt pulls back up to grin at him, and the smile on his face almost makes up for the fact that Thomas should really learn to shut up and let Newt keep kissing him. “I had a drool stain the size of Europe on my shirt when I left.” 

“Oh, God,” Thomas groans, burying his face in his hands. “I can hear Minho laughing at me from wherever he is.” 

“Minho?” Newt echoes, his eyebrows knitting together. “He’s that really fit reporter Alby is always going on about, yeah?” 

“You know Alby?” Thomas asks in disbelief, trying to ignore the fact that Newt just called Minho fit. Which, well, he is. It’s pretty hard to ignore the cold, stark truth sometimes. 

“He’s one of my best friends!” Newt exclaims with a laugh. “I’ve known him for ages.” 

“Oh my God.” Suddenly, a lot more things are falling into place. “You’re the genius best friend from England Alby is always talking about? We all thought you were some kind of myth.” 

“I just recently moved to New York,” Newt explains. “Alby was meant to show me around as soon as I got back from this.” 

“And here I was thinking I’d never see you again.” Thomas feels like his face is about to split in two; the grin he’s wearing is so wide. Newt isn’t going to disappear again. Newt is still way too smart and cool for Thomas, but somehow likes him, anyway. Thomas didn’t manage to fuck things up. It’s all going to work out. “Guess you’re not getting rid of me yet.”

“Oh, and by the way,” Newt whispers after they’ve managed to separate themselves after another round of intense kissing, leaning in so that his breath tickles the side of Thomas’ face. “I really will, you know, fuck you.” Thomas feels a shudder run through his body. “If you like.” 

Thomas mentally calculates how much longer they have on this flight, because they sure as hell are not coming out anytime soon. He grins. “Only if you say please.” And when Newt hooks his fingers into the collar of Thomas’ shirt and drags him down for another kiss, Thomas doesn’t pull away once.


End file.
